


Knowing that You're Inches from Me

by iammisscullen



Category: One Direction, Zarry - Fandom
Genre: AU, Fluff, M/M, TrainStranger!Harry, photographer!zayn, zarry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 11:20:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1044224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iammisscullen/pseuds/iammisscullen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn travels a lot and one time something happened that changes his life forever</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knowing that You're Inches from Me

**Author's Note:**

> I got the title from Stephen Speaks [Passenger Seat](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7akWlwsCJXU). Enjoy! :) xx

_“The gods are jealous of us because any moment could be our last.”_

-Achilles ( _Troy_ )

 

**

Zayn travelled a lot. It was part of his job as a photojournalist for Alastair Sawday Publishing Company. Most of his travels were mainly on the country side that meant he got to spend a lot of time on trains. And he loved it.

Besides the beautiful view outside of the windows as the train moved to its destination, Zayn was also in love with the different people he got to see every day. He might be the I-Keep-Everything-All-To-Myself type but he was very fond of the new faces he met at his travels. He observed them keenly and tried to decipher their life stories. Maybe not the kind of thorough deducing that Sherlock would do, but enough to see a bit of who those people were. And maybe to them he was the handsome, olive skinned boy with a camera.

There was really no interesting story to tell about him because after finishing high school, he took a two year course in Photography at a nearby community college in Bradford. He applied to every job opportunity he can find, carrying his portfolio and an ounce of confidence – he still doesn’t know where he got from. And fortunately, after a year of shifting jobs and making both ends meet, he was able to land at Alastair Sawday Publishing Company. It was his talent, hard-work, and passion for the job that got him the promotion to become a regular photojournalist. The salary wasn’t much if someone was aiming to be wealthy, but it was enough for Zayn. He doesn’t need a lot of money because he was contented.

He has this two-room flat in Putney that he considered home. It can’t pass as something fancy with its peeling and stained wallpapers but he doesn’t care because he doesn’t stay in it too often. He could afford a more lavish flat to be honest, but he was actually saving the money – he sent some of it to his parents – so he could travel the world. That was his dream, to see the world behind the lens of his camera and froze the moment in pictures that would look alive and would be forever remembered, never forgotten. He doesn’t admit it, but deep inside Zayn wanted to be remembered – just like the pictures he had taken. He wanted to leave marks on people’s lives. Good marks and not scars.

‘Is this seat taken?’ a raspy voice asked Zayn – motioning for the empty bench across him − and it startled him a bit because the cadence of the stranger’s voice was beautiful. It was low and soft, despite it being a little husky, that he thought of the people during the Victorian era. Not that he had heard them speak, but if the classic movies got it right then he certainly was correct.

‘You can take it mate,’ Zayn answered, not so immediately because he couldn’t help but be dazzled by the stranger with a gorgeous face to match the angelic voice. As the boy sat down across him on the train booth, Zayn still couldn’t take his eyes off him. It doesn’t matter if he stared too long like a fish because the stranger wasn’t paying attention to anything or anyone at all, which sank Zayn’s heart.

Zayn’s not vain for attention or anything – he usually got it without doing a thing – but he was perplexed why the boy wasn’t even slightly interested. Zayn doesn’t need to convince himself that he was good-looking enough to stop traffic because everyone was reminding him that he was and they always wondered why he wanted to be a photographer when he has a face that models – or any sane person – would kill for. And that brought him back to his question as to why was he ignored thoroughly by the stranger as if he didn’t exist at all. The curly haired boy’s green eyes were dead as he stared outside the window, holding his phone tightly with both hands and Zayn was curious as to what could be the boy’s story. “Curly”, as Zayn had nicknamed the pale lad, had only one small, classic-looking suitcase. It was a sad looking thing with all the old stamps and strange vandals, that it painted a picture of a broken memory just like its owner. Zayn’s curiosity was piqued of who could have torn the beautiful boy with dull, viridian eyes.

**

When the train made its stop, a woman – maybe on her early thirties, Zayn surmised – had climbed aboard and was looking for an empty booth or even just a seat. She had stopped by Curly and Zayn’s booth.

‘Anastasia,’ the woman called for her daughter, a seven year old child with midnight black hair and the bluest eyes Zayn had ever seen. She was beautiful and he was reminded of a young Waliyha, his younger sister, only that the child’s eyes weren’t amber. And he had two theories: it could be that Anastasia was adopted because she didn’t look like her mother – just the color of the eyes. Or the kid was like him, a product of two mixed genes from different nationalities.

Zayn’s trying to put the pictures together as the woman, with blonde hair and eyes azure as her child’s, smiled at both him and Curly. The other lad managed a polite smile and went back into staring outside the window, seeing nothing of the white covered scenery as he was lost in his own little world that no one knew where and what. Zayn on the other hand, gave the newly arrived company a friendly grin.

‘May I seat here?’ the woman asked Zayn, pointing to the empty seat next to him. Zayn nodded. The woman beamed him another smile and put down her stuffed duffel bag on the floor. She turned to her daughter and said softly, ‘Go seat, love.’

The train let out a loud noise, signaling its departure from the station, but Anastasia remained standing by the aisle as her mother occupied the seat next to Zayn.

‘But I want to seat by the window,’ Anastasia whined to her mother. The disappointment on her cute little face was so evident, it was heart breaking. ‘And I want to seat next to you Mama,’ she added in a tone that sounded like she was trying not to cry.

The mother cupped Anastasia’s little face with one hand and kissed her forehead. Zayn couldn’t look away from the two and he heard the woman say, ‘I’m sorry sweetie.’ Her voice was soothing like a balm to a wound. ‘Maybe on the next train we’ll get a window seat okay? The one where you and I can sit together. For now let’s be thankful we have a seat okay?’ And Zayn didn’t miss the sweet assuring smile of the mother to her child.

Anastasia nodded and obediently sat herself next to Curly. She had an understanding of an adult and Zayn was in awe.

‘It’s not bad isn’t it?’ The woman was proud of her daughter and gave the child that smile, the one that mother’s give to their children when they got high grades in school or when the children do their chores correctly without being asked to. The kind of smile his mother gave him when he had landed the job as photojournalist.

‘She can have my seat,’ Zayn announced so suddenly that it even caught Curly’s attention. Both mother and child were surprised to hear what Zayn had said. This time the train was moving again.

‘Really?’ the little girl squealed with excitement that brought a smile on Zayn’s lips.

‘Anastasia,’ her mother scolded but it sounded too soft to rein anyone. ‘It’s okay lad. You don’t have to,’ she told Zayn.

‘It’s fine. Really,’Zayn assured and he was on his feet to exchange seats with Anastasia. And the little girl was on her feet as well before her mother could even stop her. Zayn only brought a backpack – with his equipment inside – and so the exchange of seats didn’t trouble him at all.

‘I hope you don’t mind me taking her place mate,’ he said to Curly, who was watching him for the first time.

Curly shook his head and the way he stared at Zayn made the other boy’s heart to restart itself, like a man inhaling air after almost drowning.

‘Thanks,’ Zayn said as he sat down, not making eye contact but feeling Curly’s gaze still on him. And he wasn’t sure if he was just imagining the look of admiration in Curly’s eyes as he stared at him. Not the kind you give to someone you like but the type you give to a soldier who bravely fought in the battlefield for the sake of many others, neglecting his own life so others may live. It was very overwhelming.

‘Thank you so much mister,’ Anastasia said loudly, a huge grin on her face that was crinkling her eyes. She looked so happy that Zayn had forgotten the awkward tension he felt as he sat next to Curly.

‘You’re welcome.’ He smiled at the little girl. And as he turned his gaze into the child’s mother, there was that smile again. That motherly smile that Zayn only expected to receive from his own Mum.

Anastasia and her Mum bonded quietly, staring outside the window with the girl’s head leaning on her Mum’s chest, and the woman wrapping her arms around her child. Zayn looked away. He was not going to rob them of their tiny mother-and-child privacy.

But as their journey continued the two drifted into sleep and Zayn couldn’t help but take a photo of them. It was going to be a memory that will forever be remembered. He was not sure if stealing moments like that through photograph was some sort of felony, but he had done it many times to be bothered. Besides, he wasn’t killing someone or hurting anyone for that matter. He couldn’t help himself anyway because the artist – as he would often describe himself to be – in him was restless when an opportunity to take a beautiful photo came knocking by. He doesn’t think, he just does what his irrational – but somehow logical – side told him to do.

And soon Curly feel asleep as well, his head leaning on the seat in the most relax manner possible. The worried lines on the side of his eyes vanished and he looked so young, Zayn observed. Once again, Zayn was intrigued what was the story behind Curly’s rigidness and what melted the other boy’s heart with happiness. Zayn wanted to know so much about Curly as he stared at him, looking so peaceful as he napped.

A lot of questions and maybes had formed inside of Zayn’s mind while his eyes tried their hardest to memorize every inch of the boy with unruly hair and bright green irises. And instinct kicked again as he turned on his camera to take – yet again – another stolen shot. But luck must be evading him because his camera died which frustrated him, so instead he stared at Curly again and made photographs of the sleeping beauty inside his head.

Since it seemed to be a safe time to ogle over Curly, Zayn willingly jumped into the cliff of Do-It-Even-If-It-Kills-You. And yes, it was prohibited to gawk at someone like that because what if Curly suddenly woke up? What would Zayn do? What lie should he form as an excuse?

Zayn didn’t know why Curly interested him so much up to the point where he was curious as to what the other lad watched in his telly at home. Does he wait for BBC One’s _Sherlock_ season 3 like him? Or maybe he also laughed at the awesome gang in New York from _How I Met Your Mother_. If Curly read, what kind of genre does he go for? Does he read Nicholas Sparks’ novels or does he prefer Dan Brown’s complicated masterpieces? Or maybe, Curly liked classic books as he tried to compare Jane Austen’s and Louisa May Alcott’s heroines.

Zayn noticed Curly’s phone again that was clutched into the boy’s hand and he wondered what kind of music the other lad listened to. Maybe Curly wasn’t that into music because Zayn have not seen any earphones. People who love music usually listened to songs if they were traveling. Does it mean that Curly doesn’t love to read as well because he hasn’t tried to open a book – if he has any? But Zayn was reminded that sometimes people weren’t what they seem. And it saddened him that he may only learn a few things about the pale boy beside him, when all the cells in his body were excited to get to know the boy better.

But at that moment, all Zayn longed to learn about Curly was his name. Screw Juliet and her, ‘ _What’s in a name that which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet…_ ’ because right now, Zayn was eager to know Curly’s name, like a businessman zealous to know the stock market. Why does he feel like knowing Curly’s real name anyway when he had nicknamed everyone based on how he saw them. There was Mr. Fedora-Hat bloke, who sold newspaper at Piccadilly Circus station; Jewelry lady, whose neck was full of pearls that you start to wonder how she was not choking; Rocker Guitar man, who obviously has a guitar and wore band tees with matching torn jeans and black army boots; and so many more people he had remembered not because he had met them twice or more but because they were people who had caught his attention. Maybe to some they were insignificant – a passing stranger – but to Zayn they were the human beings that he had learned a lesson or two about the reality of life. Like how people were different from each other with the way they dress, the way they talk, their mannerisms, their jobs, their priorities in life, the things that make them happy and sad, their flaws, etc. These were the strangers who, although took up the tiniest part of his life, will always be that kind of unforgotten memory but at the same time not often remembered.

And Zayn doesn’t want Curly to be that kind of page in his story. That one page memory that he will never find again as time goes by because more leaves were added to his book. Curly needed to be this long and immortal chapter, the type that you’ll tell your children about and even your grandchildren will hear of. Like a classic fairytale that was never getting old and would be an all-time favourite. So Zayn craved for more information on Curly – not just physical features but deeper things – that would glue everything together and keep it intact despite the harsh passing of time.

Zayn needed the boy’s name.

It was the third week of January and classes have already started after the Christmas break, so Zayn was curious as to why Curly was traveling to the country when based on the stamp on his suitcase, he was a university student that should be in school. He couldn’t make out of the school’s name but Zayn was sure it was a university logo, of a prestigious school, that was sketched – by Curly’s artist friend (Zayn was sure that Curly wasn’t the type who painted and stuff because of his aura and all) – into his suitcase. Curly seemed like the good student material, then why was he skipping class? Something urgent must have happened back home, Zayn assumed, that had Curly to jump on the next train, looking all anxious and zombie-like. Something bad took place and a demise of a family member was the worst case scenario.

And there was that ache in Zayn’s heart, a pain of pity for the younger boy next to him because life was unfair sometimes – _most_ of the time. Why can’t the bleakest tragedy leave you alone for like the first 20 years of your life and it could come knocking when you were like 21 and do its onslaught, so then you’ll be more ready? But then again, nothing will ever prepare you to whatever happened in your life. You can only imagine the worst that would come your way but never know how bad it was going to hurt. And that was how it will always work.

Poor Curly, he had to go through all of this when he can’t even balance his school work, Zayn thought.

Zayn went back to _studying_ Curly again. He realized that the lad’s black trench coat was old because the color was almost fading. Was he poor then? Zayn wondered. And what a cliché Curly was to Zayn’s life back in college. Another pang of pity and he thought he was caring way too much for a stranger. But Zayn knew what it was like to be on Curly’s shoes, so maybe that was why he was sympathetic to him, Zayn convinced himself.

**

They have arrived at their next stop and when the train abruptly stopped, Curly’s whole body jerked a little and his head somehow landed on Zayn’s shoulder. The impact was slow as if Curly obviously planned to do that and Zayn didn’t have the heart to detach himself from the other boy. It would be rude, right? Besides, there was nothing wrong for letting strangers – beautiful strangers – to borrow your shoulder as a pillow, right? But, why was there a knot in Zayn’s stomach that told him it was good but not right?

As the train moved again after that three minutes stop, the weight on Zayn’s shoulder didn’t bother him at all. On the contrary, it felt comforting and satisfying. He had been traveling all alone for so long that he had never realized how lonely it was not to be able to talk to anyone. He had wanted so much to share to someone about the beautiful colour of the sunset, the artistic hues of the trees in the fall, the simplicity of the clear blue sky, and the colourful people he got to encounter in his journey. He has no one to open up regarding his opinions, ideas, and feelings that at some time only existed in a few moments.

It was a sad realization and Zayn stared into the mysterious boy leaning on him, wondering if Curly was feeling the same when he traveled alone. Does Curly traveled alone always as well? Zayn pondered.

For the first time, Zayn admitted that he needed company in the little adventures that he goes to, someone to share the moment with − a time in his life that might never happen again. There was that ache in his heart again that was always connected to the curly haired lad. This time though it wasn’t for Curly, it was for himself because Zayn knew that he couldn’t keep the boy next to him, that at the end of this journey… he will be alone, once again. All the emotions the younger boy made him feel will be nothing but a bittersweet memory and sadly, that was all it was going to be till the end of his life.

**

When Zayn woke up− he didn’t even know he had drifted off to dreamland −  the mysterious boy with emerald eyes was gone. The woman and her daughter were still there across him, sleeping peacefully.

Zayn must have been dreaming after all because there was no trace of the curly haired lad anywhere on the red leather seat beside him. There wasn’t a forgotten handkerchief, an improperly thrown sachet of some snack, or simply anything that would prove to Zayn that the lad existed. His camera failed him and he was so stupid not to have used his phone to take a picture. But then again, maybe he was dreaming of it after all. And if it was indeed a dream – that fact saddened him greatly –he has a vivid image of the boy in his head but he was afraid that time would snatch that away from him till it came to the point that he will no longer remember anything, just merely the feelings he had that day which was depressing.

They were already at M6 junction in Stafford. Zayn’s stop.

As he got his bag on the floor, he made a last glance at the sleeping females and one last glance at the empty seat by the window that looked too lonely now. Or did it look just like that before and he just didn’t notice?

When Zayn got off the train, feeling more alone than ever, tiny little flakes of white started to fall slowly from the sky. He looked up and thought of what a beautiful sight it could have been if only he didn’t feel so lonely and cold inside. As a breeze of frosty air blew his way, Zayn tugged his coat tighter – good thing he had clothed himself heavily but he still find it not enough to such a chilly weather − and hid his chin on the scarf that was wrapped around his neck.

Wait. What? Zayn panicked. How on earth did he have a scarf?

Zayn touched the end of the cloth that dangled in front of his chest. He looked at the mush of soft and warm fabric in his hand and couldn’t believe his eyes. He felt it with his fingers and it was real. He whiffed the textile and it smelled of cinnamon and coconut, the same scent he had sniffed when a gorgeous boy with sad jade eyes had wandered into his booth in the train.

He smiled to himself as he tried to replay everything because he was absolutely convinced that it wasn’t a dream. The mop of brown curls, the green eyes, the pale skin, the long fingers, the straight nose, and the pink plum lips, they were all real. _He_ did exist and not just a product of Zayn’s imagination.

It might just have been a short and unplanned encounter but sometimes when people come into our lives, they surely leave footprints. And Zayn knew that he will never be the same again.

He studied the scarf one last time and at the other end of the fabric there was an embroidery, so significant, that Zayn was lost for words. He didn’t know what could make the moment more unforgettable, with the snow slowly falling around him but its cold not touching him at all because he has this warmth inside brought by five simple letters.

 Charity they say was not giving a bone to the dog but sharing the bone with the dog when you were as hungry as the dog. And _he_ gave Zayn a piece of himself despite whatever difficulties he was facing at the moment. Often times, we were all caught up in our own problems that we seem to care less for others and neglect that we should help them. It was something Zayn won’t ever forget because it was a charity – a little warmth − from a kind boy with melancholic emerald eyes named: _Harry._

 

_Fin._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you like it. Comment? Kudos? :) xx


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